The Inkblot In His Heart
by KaolinShadowheart
Summary: The story of Capricorn's losses that cause him to become the evil being we know. It is a miracle that someone loves him unconditionally, or so he thinks, and when she is torn from him, how will he live?
1. Chapter 1

Fear. He wasn't allowed to feel it, so why did he feel drenched in its terrifying presence? Rymon shuddered against the wall and swaddled himself in his scratchy woollen blankets. The darkness pressed itself against him like a breathing monster, and he gave a frightened little squeak.

"Rymon?" A grating voice sliced the silence, and the sound of it made Rymon's pale eyes widen in terror.

A match flared to life, and the shadows fled from the hovel as a flickering lamp was set on the little table beside Rymon's straw mattress. It illuminated a tiny shack with an unstable bed beside the blackened hearth across the room from where the young Capricorn, though his name was then Rymon, laid. Much to his dismay, the lamp also illuminated a bird-like woman with a hooked nose and small, piercing eyes; the sort of eyes you would expect to find on a doll.

"Mother…" He said as boldly as he could, though at ten years old his voice was far from bold.

"What was that noise? _Are you afraid of something?_" Her eyes bulged and her breath quickened. Mortola had told him many times to never show fear, and once again, he had disobeyed her.

"I wasn't afraid." He said quickly. "Not really… it was dark." He blinked up at her imploringly.

"You are afraid of the dark?" Mortola snorted. "Then you'll have to conquer your fear. Go outside and spend the night out there. It is perfectly dark out there." He must have looked completely horrified then, for she leaned closer and said, "Do it, Rymon, or I shall tell your father about this."

Rymon glanced over at the snoring heap that lay on the bed. His father, Asric. He nodded fearfully and pushed the blankets off himself. He pulled a coat around his thin shoulders and slipped his bare feet into a pair of doeskin shoes.

As he stepped out into the cold air of the dark, poor area of Ombra, his mother whispered, "Fear is a weakness, son. You must learn to lose it." And she pushed the door shut.

Rymon stood out in the chilly air and stared up at the sprinkle of stars scattered over the black sky. He forced himself to look around at the shadows clinging to the walls and houses as though they were afraid to venture out into the milky moonlight. He then clenched his fists and set off to find somewhere to spend the night.

He tripped along the cobbles clumsily, his eyes snapping everywhere nervously. There was no one out, and it was _so _dark. He whimpered.

There was a bang from a cluster of wooden crates outside one of the tiny houses, and with a terrified cry he hurled himself along the narrow streets at a run. He stumbled many times, but didn't linger in one place until he found a small wooden stable and launched himself into the hay above it.

He lay there, panting, and simply listened to the night sounds of the city. In fact, he felt safer there than in his hovel with his parents. Or, he _did,_ until he heard a rustling in the stables beneath him. He froze as the unmistakeable sound of a footstep throbbed in his ears, and stared up at the fairy nests in the rafters, still and silent, hoping whoever it was would go away.

"Hello?" A young, female voice called, and Rymon heard someone climbing up the ladder into the hayloft.

He jumped to a crouch and prepared himself to spring at whoever it was, to send them falling back to the stable with a punch. But when the person did come to the top of the ladder, he did not move. It was not a night mare, and it wasn't a scary-looking person at all. It was just a dirty little girl in a green felt dress. She was around his age, with long straw-coloured plaits and muddy brown eyes that looked right at him, bemused.

"Hello." She said again. "What are you doing here?"

Rymon eyed her with distrust and hunched himself against the stable wall, glaring fiercely. "What are _you _doing here?" He demanded, curling his hands into claws.

The girl arched an eyebrow and sat with her legs dangling over the edge of the loft. "There's no need for that, I was only asking because I've never seen you here before. _I _come here most nights. It's so difficult to sleep when my brothers are snoring, so I sleep here."

"I can be here if I want to be." Rymon said sullenly.

"I didn't say you couldn't be. I'm Wren, who are you?"

"Rymon."

"Do you live in Ombra?"

Rymon snorted. "Of course. My father is the best blacksmith in the entire town." It was an exaggeration, and he knew it, but he had nothing else to brag about.

"Is he? I expect he makes the swords and weapons for the army, then. Have you got a sword? Oh, have you?" She asked enthusiastically, her eyes wide and hopeful.

"Yes, he _does _make swords. But I'm not allowed one until I'm older." It was a downright lie, of course. His father had never come near a sword, and Rymon would certainly never see one.

"Oh my, that's exciting! You can go and hunt night mares and talk with the moss women of the Wayless Wood, and you can stroll through it because not even the wolves will go near you if you have a sword!" She eyed him enviously. "It's just like Balbulus's stories!"

Rymon's eyebrow's shot up to his hairline. "You can read?"

"Oh no, but my mother works as Balbulus's assistant. She fetches paints and parchment for him and tidies the library at the castle. When I was younger and had nowhere to go she would bring me with her, and Balbulus would read to me when he had nothing else to do. I still don't think he liked me very much, though."

"My mother is a maid at the castle, too." Rymon said truthfully. He eyed Wren nervously. He liked her, and didn't like that he had lied to her. He could always do with a friend, even if Mortola said friendship was for the weak. "Wren, do you want to know why I am here? I'm sorry I was rude and didn't tell you before."

"Yes, tell me." She smiled dreamily, and Rymon suspected she was thinking up all sorts of incredulous tales and stories of brownies and sprites.

"I'm afraid of the dark. My mother doesn't like me being afraid. She sent me out here to 'conquer my fear' and I hated being out on the street, so I came in here. You can stay here, too, if you like. I don't want to be alone again." He hung his head in shame.

"That's all right. I used to be afraid of the dark, because of the night mares and white women. My father was killed by a night mare, you see. But when I started coming out here to get a better night's sleep, my fear sort of… went. I'm sure that'll happen to you." She smiled slightly.

"Thank you. I like it better here than at home." He didn't think he would ever be able to explain to her why that was. He didn't want to say he was beaten and encouraged to be cruel, and he didn't want to mention his horrid mother and brutish father. He decided he would spend more time in the stable with his new friend Wren.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Little Wren**

Rymon bid Wren farewell as the sun shone pale yellow above the houses, and he made his way home through the narrow, winding streets. He wondered now why he had been afraid, all he saw were people leaving their homes on the way to work, and the houses with their grimy stone walls.

He stood outside his house for several minutes, loath to go home to his parents. His home was a small, ramshackle affair, with one little square window barely big enough to poke your head through and a thatched roof that housed countless fairy nests.

Before he could build up the courage to knock, the door swung open, squealing on its hinges, and revealed his father. Asric's broad shoulders barely fitted in the doorway, and his lengthy black beard bristled under his chin, as big and bold as his thick eyebrows.

"What are you doing there, boy?" Asric asked. "You shouldn't stand out in the street like some dithering girl." He shoved his son roughly aside with his plate-sized hands.

Rymon fell to the ground, and gazed up at his father, startled. "I stayed out all night." He said uncertainly. "Because I wanted to… fight a night mare."

"Fight a night mare, eh? I've never heard of a more ridiculous idea in my life. Stupid boy, if you're going to try to be fearless, try and do it intelligibly, or you'll end up dead sooner than you know it. Not that that would be much of a problem for me, you're too weak to be my son." Asric kicked his son roughly in the stomach and stomped off, and as Rymon stared tearfully after him he noted that today his father was in a rather bad mood.

"Rymon?" Mortola swept out of the house and glared at him. "If I find you've upset your father it shall be more than the belt that you'll feel tonight, boy." She then scuttled off up the street, heading for the castle and her work.

He pulled himself up and sighed. No congratulation for staying out all night, no welcome home. He knew what they were doing. They wanted to make him tough; they wanted him to be heartless and cruel as they were.

A young boy of around four was watching wide-eyed not far away, and when Rymon saw him he spat at the little boy. "Stop staring, idiot!" He snarled, spitting out his words as though they were liquid hatred. "Go and watch the Motley Folk if you want a show!" And before he could stop himself he had scooped up a stone and hurled it at the boy's head.

The boy swayed as a crimson gash bloomed on his forehead, and he squealed and cried in pain. He staggered backwards, clutching his head in agony. Rymon watched fearfully at first, unsure of whether to get help for the boy he had just injured, but when the boy wailed and screamed harder, he darted away up the street.

He ran on until he was in the busy streets. People were setting up market stalls and constructing tables to hold their goods, and the Motley Folk performed in surrounded by rings of cheering children. A wire was suspended from the roofs above, and a surefooted man was dancing along it. His eyes were azure like the sky he danced among, and his face was creased with laugh lines. Rymon wondered if he would ever be that happy.

He wandered along, his sunken eyes watery and unfathomable as they flicked from stall to stall, person to person. When he passed a small street barely wide enough to walk down, he heard loud jibes and shouted insults.

Bored, he entered the little alley and stopped, startled, when he saw Wren standing there surrounded by big, burly boys. Her chin jutted out defiantly, and her muddy hands were placed on her hips.

"Nah, you can say all you like about my brothers." She was saying rudely. "Because I know they aint half as stupid as you lot."

"Want to say that again?" One of the biggest boys spat, squaring himself up and clenching his fists.

Wren opened her mouth to speak, but Rymon darted into the alley and grabbed her arm, startling her. "Leave her alone." He growled. "She's going." He tugged her after him, despite her angry protests and assurances that she 'could take them any day'.

"Need him to get you out of trouble, do you Little Wren?" The boys jeered. "Can't finish an argument with us, can you?"

Wren spat and clawed like a wildcat at the boys, put Rymon kept pulling her until she stumbled after him and out onto the busy street. She still screamed insults at them, and he had to yank her far away from the alley before she would stop.

Finally, she wrenched her arm away so forcefully that it stung Rymon's hand, and she glared at him. "All right!" She snapped. "You've got me away, now leave me alone. Gosh, I wouldn't have spoken to you last night if I knew you would act like my brothers and try to stop me from fighting all of the time."

"Sorry, they were just really tough… and I didn't want you to get hurt. I thought maybe we were friends." Her words stung more than her earlier action, and he hoped he didn't look too pathetically put down.

"We _are._" She rolled her eyes. "But Rymon, I don't think you understand how important it is that I fight those boys when they insult me. Otherwise they'll do it all of the time." She frowned thoughtfully. "Oh, I know what could be fun!" She exclaimed. "I could teach you to be tough, and you could help me out sometimes! There _are _a lot more of them, and I'm on my own."

Rymon blinked in surprise. It might help if she toughened him up, perhaps then his father would be kinder to him. He nodded slowly. "All right."

After that, life improved greatly for Rymon. For the first time in his life he had a friend, someone he cared about and who cared for him, and as the years rolled by he and Wren became inseparable. They would meet at night to whisper and giggle in the stable, then they would fall asleep in the hay until the Stable Master arrived. In the daytime, when Rymon wasn't desperately trying to follow his father as a blacksmith, they would sit on the rooftops and watch the Strolling Players perform.

Wren had indeed tried to toughen Rymon up, but she had discovered that he was far better at manipulating people to fight for him than actually fighting himself.

By the time they were both fifteen, Rymon was far happier with Wren in his life. His pale, watery eyes weren't constantly sorrowful and angry, as they had been before, and he told her everything that was bothering him.

Yes, the beginning of his fifteenth year was better than anything that had happened to him before, but things were about to change.


	3. Chapter 3

Rymon and Wren sat in the hayloft of the stable as the stars blinked open their sleepy eyes and bathed Ombra in milky light. Rymon lay back against the wall and Wren sat beside him, her head resting on his shoulder.

"I'll be married off soon, Rymon." She said warningly, her tone showing him that there was something else she wanted to say.

"You might not be." He stated calmly. His watery eyes watched as she twirled her honey curls around her dirty finger idly.

"I will be." She hissed. "I'm the only girl in the family, my father's going to want to give me away to some wealthy merchant, he thinks I'm _pretty_." She snorted.

Rymon smiled slightly. She had no idea how beautiful she was, with her unique honey blonde hair and deep, sparkling brown eyes, but he knew, he knew all too well how pretty his Little Wren was. "I won't let them." He said, taking her hand and holding it to his lips.

Wren's forehead creased into a frown. "What will you-" She began, but he stopped her by calmly placing a hand under her chin, and tilting her head to face him. Then he gently brushed his lips against hers, and tried not to smile when her eyes widened.

Then she was kissing him, but she broke off suddenly, and slumped against the wall, her eyes scrunched up, her lip trembling. She shook her head from side to side, trying to stop herself from crying.

Rymon took her hand again silently. He knew she didn't want to show any weakness, and she never cried, at least not in front of anyone. "It's all right, my Wren." He whispered.

"No… Rymon _listen _to me… I was going to tell you…" She looked down, her dark eyelashes brushing against her cheeks. "I love you." She said in a barely audible whisper.

"I-"

"_No._" She held a finger to his lips, shaking her head violently. "Don't say it. We can't… I have to tell you, my father's going to marry me off."

"I know, but-"

"Rymon." She shot him a murderous look that silenced him. "My father's going to marry me off _soon. _Really soon."

Rymon frowned, and his grip on her hand tightened. "How soon?"

"He's chosen someone. The silk merchant who works at the castle, the one who lives in that huge house with the iron gates just outside Ombra. His name is Tride, and he accepted my father's offer. I'm going to marry him in two weeks."

"_What?_" Rymon exploded. He jumped to his feet, his eyes wide with horror and fury. "You could have told me weeks ago!"

"No, he only just accepted! Rymon, what am I going to do? I don't want to live with him, I don't want to wear dresses and meet the king and eat with real cutlery!"

"We can run away." Rymon began pacing the floor, shaking hay loose so that it fell on the horses and made the shuffle nervously. "We can run into the Wayless Wood and live with a coalburner… we'll make a living there, and start a family, and…" He closed his eyes tightly and covered his eyes with his hand. "Wren, you're the only good thing I have. If I can't see you any more there is no point to my existence. I might as well murder my own father and let them catch me for murder and hang me on the gallows."

"Rymon!" She stood beside him and pulled his hand from his face so he looked at her. "Don't you dare say that, we'll find a way. We'll find a way!"

* * * *

The weeks flew by as the pair tried desperately to think of a plan to stop the inevitable. Neither of them liked the idea of leaving the city, but they could think of nothing else to do. They planned to leave four days before Wren's wedding day.

Rymon stood in the doorway of his house, watching his mother scrub his father's boots. He eyed her coldly, his hand gripping a bag of provisions, which he slung over his shoulder. He had tucked a simple carving knife into his belt, and his hand rested on where it was hidden beneath his tunic.

"Mortola, I'll be back before daybreak." He said as icily as he could. It always helped to be cruel around his mother, for she listened to him then.

"Yes, my dear cold son." She eyed him proudly and turned back to her washing.

Rymon smiled as he slipped away through the streets. He knew how to deal with his parents, even if it made him act as he didn't want to. But that didn't matter now, he need never look cruel again, for he was going to meet Wren at the stables, and they were going to run away.

It was early afternoon, and the sun was high in the sky, and as perfectly round as a gold coin. They had originally planned to leave at night, but Wren was not allowed out at night any more, her father did not want her consorting with Rymon now that she was betrothed.

He slipped into the stables and climbed the rickety ladder to the hayloft, inhaling the sweet scent of hay and horses lovingly. When he was almost at the top of the ladder he saw that Wren was not there. He rolled his eyes, he wanted to be away as soon as possible, Wren had better not be late.

"Looking for yer gal, eh?" Said a voice from the stable below, and Rymon froze. He turned his head around in a flash, and saw the old stablemaster that sometimes chased them out of the hayloft whenever he found them there. Rymon said nothing, so the man continued. "Heard she was getting married today, din't ye know?"

"She's not getting married today." Rymon stepped back down the ladder and stood before the old man fiercely. "She's getting married in four days."

"Nah, I know all the gossip, everyone tells me stuff when I takes the 'orses from people. Lord Tride wanted to move the wedding forward cos he has a meeting with the king tomorrow and he wants to look nice an' proper with a wife. They're having it in half an hour or so, I heard."

Rymon's heart seemed to sink to his shoes. It beat so hard he could hear it hammering wildly like a caged bird. He shook his head. "You're lying." He whispered murderously, gripping the carving knife's hilt.

"I ain't. The wedding's in the castle courtyard. Go check if ye don't believe me. I hear-"

Rymon heard no more. He whipped out of the stable and raced along the cobbles, tripping over potholes and stumbling blindly along the worn streets. Tears blurred his vision as he raced along the main street leading to the castle, and people stared and pointed as he pushed past.

There was indeed a large crowd at the castle gates, but that did not stop Rymon. He pushed and punched and kicked his way to the front, and then his heart stopped. He considered ripping the knife from his belt and plunging it into his ruined heart there and then.

The stunning trees with their dazzling orange birds were still there, and the Laughing Prince's banners flapped in the wind like the wings of proud birds, but now there were white chairs and a wedding arch dotting between them. Rymon recognised Wren's father as one of those seated on the chairs, and then he allowed himself to look at the two figures beneath the arch.

Almost as surprising as the situation was the fact that Wren was crying. Tears dripped down her soft cheeks her hair, which was brushed to golden waves that tumbled against her back stunningly. She looked breathtaking in the pristine white dress with the silken trail, but the sight only made Rymon's heart heavier.

The man she was with was tall and slight, with shoulder-length brown hair shot with grey. He was smiling and waving at the spectators, and when he looked at Wren his eyes glowed happily, like he was looking at some beautiful gem he had found.

Wren was glancing around desperately, and her hand trembled as Tride took it. Tears dripped down her cheeks, and Tride, mistaking them for tears of joy, smiled and brushed them away with his finger.

The contact burned through Rymon's mind. It seared his vision and his brain whirred and clicked warningly. It was wrong, it shouldn't happen. She was _his._

He staggered forward like a dying man, clutching his heart and wincing in pain. He stumbled into the area of chairs, and Wren saw him. Her eyes widened at the sight of him, and she began to weep and sob, chained to the spot by invisible bonds.

As the words were said that bound Wren and Tride together, Rymon hobbled to the arch with a wild cry, and grabbed the delicate trail of flowers hung over it to steady himself. There were alarmed gasps from the crowd as Rymon fell to the ground with the flowers in his hand, his vision blurry, his eyes unfocussed.

Guards were rushing towards him, and the last thing he saw before unconsciousness was Wren's eyes on him, shrieking his name and tearing along the distance between them. Then his head hit the ground with a sickening crack, and he saw no more.


	4. Chapter 4

Rymon's head hurt. The pain blasted through his head and sent him spiralling back to reality from a strange dream-like trance. His body convulsed, and his eyes fluttered open. Someone murmured softly to him, and he moaned and grabbed their hand. Whoever it was pulled away gently, and as his eyes returned to focus he saw a pretty little brunette girl holding a cloth covered in warm water and a strange-smelling herb.

She smiled nervously and proffered a mug of water to his lips. It was cool, so much better than the warm, dirty water from the well in his street. It dripped onto his chin and he closed his eyes and sighed sadly. As he lay there it came back to him: the empty stable, the wedding… falling.

"Who are you and where am I?" He asked bitterly, unable to keep the awful pain from his voice. It crept into his throat as it poisoned his mind, filling him with pictures of his beautiful Wren.

"This is Lord Tride's house. I'm just one of his servants." The girl sucked in a deep breath. "Lady Wren watched over you all evening, but she's gone for some rest."

Rymon balled his hands into fists. "Why am I here? I should be at home." He said angrily, though he would prefer to be recovering on the street than in his home or Wren's new manor.

He took a long, ragged breath. Why did Wren have to be so beautiful? If his dear Wren, the girl he had fallen in love with, had been a plain girl, they would not have this problem, they would be together.

"I don't know. Lady Wren said you were a friend, and should be looked after. I sent someone to fetch her when I saw you waking, she will be here soon." The girl stood and brushed little herb leaves from her skirts.

Rymon swore and jumped out of the bed, only to find that he was in snowy white nightclothes. He shooed the girl from the room and dressed hurriedly into his clothes that had been washed for him. The room was a simple guest room, with a wide window overlooking a busy street directly outside the castle.

He straightened himself up and marched to the door. He had to get out, he couldn't see Wren, he had to get away… he had to get _far _away.

As he reached the door it swung open, almost hitting him in the face. He stumbled to the side, cursing, and froze when he saw Wren. She stood, one hand on the doorknob, the other lying limp at her side. Her hair hung, un-brushed and untidy, at her waist, and her eyes were glistening with tears. She wore a simple yet stunning white dress.

"Rymon." She whispered. She winced, and her face scrunched up as she tried to banish the tears from her eyes. "I'm so sorry. So sorry… he wanted the wedding early, I was so afraid!" Her chest heaved, and she pressed the door shut.

She flung her slight body against him, and he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her up to his height and pressing his lips ardently against hers, crushing her against him obsessively. "What are we going to do?" He asked between kisses.

"I don't know." She threw her arms around his neck and twined her fingers in his hair. "I love you. Rymon, I'm going to die if I can't see you anymore." She punctuated every word with a kiss. "If I can't kiss you and hold you like this."

Rymon spoke no more. He lifted her and she pushed her legs around his waist, and her lay her on the bed, still kissing her passionately.

"Tride is at the castle." She murmured.

Rymon grinned wickedly before pressing himself against her.

* * *

That afternoon, when Tride was due to return, Rymon and Wren stood against the back wall of the house, hidden in shadow. Wren was pressed against the wall and Rymon leaned over her, his face inches from hers.

"I don't care if he kills me." Rymon murmured. "I can't be without you."

"He won't find out." Wren smiled. "I just hope you can cope with living with your awful parents."

"I'll manage. I'll have something to look forward to in the evenings, won't I?" He smirked and kissed her softly.

"Tomorrow night. I'll leave the back door open, meet me in the wine cellar." She kissed him once more, then slipped away into the afternoon sun, turning once at the door to grin into the shadows.

Rymon smiled. It wasn't the ideal situation, but it certainly didn't seem as dire as it had that morning. In fact, he found it exciting, though he knew that would not last.

He darted away up the street, and dodged along alleys until he reached his own little house. The door was wide open, and as he stepped inside, he found Mortola washing Asric's filthy feet. Asric was prodding the fire with a hot poker while she did that, and he frowned at his son when he saw him. Mortola froze, she stood slowly and glared at him through her pinched, bird-like eyes.

"Foolish boy." She hissed. "Did you think we wouldn't hear about your actions at Tride's wedding? What were you thinking, incompetent child!"

"I love Wren!" He barked, squaring his shoulders and flexing his fingers into a ball.

Asric staggered to his feet drunkenly. "Bloody boy!" He bellowed, hefting the poker and stumbling forward. "Aint no girl could ever love you, you spineless idiot!"

Rymon shook his head, as he watched the poker steaming, cherry-red, he recalled all of the times when, as a young child, his father would bring him to his work. Asric would show young Rymon the coals, burning white-hot, and Rymon would coo and grin at the bright light of it. Then Asric would throw it at him, and when Rymon caught them to look closer his hands burnt so painfully he blacked out.

After that, whenever Asric tossed coals at him in anger, or as a laugh with his friends, Rymon would have to try to doge, and as a result was covered in scars and burn marks.

Rymon glanced down at the scars and white marks on his hands, and he winced as he remember the pain that caused them. Still, he did not back away. "She _does _love me. And she's far more beautiful than the foul old hag you married!" Rymon shouted. He spat at his father's feet. "I ardently wish for the day when you both lie dead and I may laugh in your cold, sightless faces!"

His father gave an angry roar and brought the poker crashing down on Rymon's shoulder. It was not as hot as it could have been, but it scorched through his clothes, and when the impact sent him crashing to the floor he writhed in the pain that seared through him.

As Asric descended upon him, he jumped up and landed a heavy punch right on his father's jaw, which sent him stumbled backwards.

Asric brought the poker over the shoulder, then slammed it forward with all of his might. It clipped Rymon's shin as he darted out of the way, and then hit the floor so forcefully it sent bits of the slate flooring flying into the air. Rymon yelped in pain, and spat on his shin to try to cool it down.

His father dropped the poker and slammed a punch onto his son. Rymon fell to the ground, limp, and for the second time that day he was unconscious.


End file.
